Page 102 of The Quest for Excalibur
This made Arthur scowl. “He would have been here if he’d come to greet us with his sister on our return. Where was he then? Skulking with his friends in the barracks, drinking, gambling? Who knows? But he wasn’t at the Hall to welcome us.”
The knuckles of the hand gripping the stem of his goblet whitened. “If he’s not interested in us, then why should I single him out for any honor?” He glanced at Llacheu who was talking loudly to Merlin, a chicken leg in one hand and his goblet of wine in the other. “He needs to follow Llacheu’s example more closely.”
Oh, for crying out loud.
Was he stupid? The urge to grab him by the shoulders– yes, his bad shoulder as well– seized me. I hung onto my rapidly unraveling patience with difficulty. “You’ve managed to sideline Amhar once this year already by singling out Medraut and making it seem like a reward.” I kept my voice as low as possible, acutely aware of the part I’d played in that. “And now he’s down there with his friends thinking you’ve ignored him again.”
Why hadn’t I thought of this beforehand and asked Arthur, in private, to include our son at the high table? Because I’d been too busy wanting Arthur to make love to me. Because I’d been thinking of myself. Big mistake when you’re a parent– bigger still when you’re a queen.
Arthur could scowl with the best of them. His brows lowered over his eyes even further, and he removed his hand from my thigh. A bad sign. “Maybe if he were a little more like Llacheu and Medraut, he might find himself treated like the warrior he wants to be.”
“That’s not really fair. He’s just a child. They’re both older than him. How can he compete?’
On my right, Archfedd and Reaghan, who’d been allowed a little watered wine, were giggling with gay abandon, tipsy, no doubt. At least one member of our family was happy. Down in the center of the hall a juggler was tossing apples into the air.
“He’ll be twelve soon,” Arthur said, his voice hardening. “He needs to grow up and stop behaving like a sulky child. Don’t think I haven’t noticed, because I have.” He jerked his head down the hall toward the bottom table. “I saw the look he gave you. For that alone he deserves a whipping.”
Oh no.
“That was my fault,” I gabbled. “He saw me looking at Llacheu. I couldn’t help it. I was thinking how much like you he is.” And how proud I was of him. Had that been written across my face for all to see?
Arthur put his hand on mine where it lay beside my plate, his grip iron-hard. “And Amhar isn’t?” Just three words, but they held so much. Was he really raising that now? After so long? I struggled to steady my breath, panting as though I’d been running.
What was I doing? Everything I said was sinking me deeper into a mire of my own making. Somehow, I’d turned a joyful celebration into a fight between me and Arthur, and not a fight I wanted to conduct in public.
I pulled my hand away from his. “I feel a little unwell. The heat in here’s too much for me. I need to retire to our chamber.” Before he could stop me, I’d pushed my seat back from the table and risen to my feet. “Goodnight.” I kissed him lightly on the cheek.
He made no move to detain me. At least he had the sense not to cause a scene in public. I turned away, and at the far end of the hall saw Amhar’s dark head turn to watch me leave.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Ididn’t sleep.The partition wall, which didn’t reach the roof, did nothing to diminish the shouting, singing, the fights over scraps between hounds, the music rising to the rafters, and the intermittent banging of goblets or knife hilts on tables.
After Maia had unlaced my gown and I’d had a quick wash and brushed my teeth, I climbed into bed and pulled the covers over my head, but even that didn’t keep out the noise. And of course, my overactive brain wouldn’t let me sleep, either.
Everything I’d ever known about King Arthur, almost all of it learned from my father, spun around inside my brain as if it were a tumble dryer on fast spin, making my head ache. It was widely believed that no son of Arthur had inherited his role in Britain.
When Gildas had written his moany rant some time in the mid-sixth century, he’d mentioned no heir to Arthur. Although Gildas, if I was honest, had only written about five kings, and all of them he’d labeled as bad. So maybe Amhar would be a good king, and go on to rule after Arthur’s death– or removal to Avalon, if you believed that nonsense.
Having to think about Arthur’s death, the proximity of which was another thing weighing heavily in my heart now Badon was behind us, cut me to the quick. But I couldn’t avoid it for much longer– one day soon it would be coming.
I rolled onto my other side, my back to the noise in the Hall.
The fact that I’d never heard of any of Arthur’s sons meant nothing. My father might well have known of them. It didn’t mean they hadn’t existed, as they clearly had– or even that they’d died before Arthur himself did. That last thought renewed the shivers down my spine. I pushed it away with determination. It didn’t bear thinking about. Oh, how I wished I could talk to Dad. He’d have known. Although the thought of knowing didn’t give me any comfort.
I rolled over again and pulled one of my pillows over my head. The racket persisted. Everyone in the hall must be getting very drunk. When the fighting began, fueled, no doubt, by an excess of alcohol, I groaned and clamped my hands over my ears. Shouts followed, amongst which I recognized Cei’s voice, and after a bit the noise died down. No doubt the troublemakers had been evicted.
I must have dozed off for a while because a crash woke me. A couple of the oil lamps were still burning in their alcoves, and by their light I made out Arthur’s shape, standing one of our chairs back up again, one hand rubbing his shin. Unaware he was being watched, he leaned heavily on the table, his head drooping between his shoulders, motionless for a long minute. Not enough light for me to make out his expression, but his body language told me more.
He was drunk. I hadn’t seen him like this for a long time, and it usually only happened when he felt particularly emotional about something. I lay still, watching from half beneath the covers on our bed.
He straightened up, running the fingers of one hand through his shaggy hair, pushing it back from his face. A gesture of despair.
Why? What was wrong? Did he feel something of what I’d been feeling all evening?
Without moving from the table, he began peeling off his clothes. His belt hit the table-top with an audible clunk from the heavy buckle. His boots went skidding across the floor as he kicked them off. He hauled off his tunic and linen undershirt as though they’d burned his skin, dropping them to the floor from where no doubt Maia would pick them up tomorrow.
In just his braccae, he padded to the bench, where a large earthenware bowl always stood. Maia had replenished it with clean water after I’d had my wash, but it would be cold by now. Water splashed, drops catching the dim light of the fading lamps and sparkling like diamonds. He paused, head hanging again, hands resting heavily on either side of the bowl. Then he dunked his entire head in the cold water. He must be very drunk to need to do that.
